


another love

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bros Bein Bros, Domestic Fluff, Dudes Bein Dudes, Friends to Lovers, Let Kent Parson Be Soft 2k16, M/M, Moving On, Offseason Shenanigans, Sexuality Crisis, Swoops Guy/Dark Haired Teammate/Jeff, Teammates to Friends, his name is jeff in this, whatever you want to call him - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent turns up the radio full blast for the drive back to his house, and his hat keeps falling off because of the wind whipping through the windows, and Jeff can’t stop grinning and Kent’s a terrible singer but he knows all the words, and Jeff thinks <i>this is what he looks like happy.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	another love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [punkpadfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpadfoot/gifts).



> this is for cait, who is an absolute angel. i was going to write you a very long shittykent where kent gets traded to the falcs and maybe someday i still will, but that got too big for its boots and i didn't have time, and, man, kent deserves something soft. so i gave him something very soft.
> 
> huge shoutout to sarah misandrywitch for letting me drunkenly message her about jeff until i got him enough to write him, and also for making sure my jeff wouldn't like directly contradict cait's and ruin everything <3
> 
> all my love to lee verbyna for reading this over and saving me from my run-on sentences.
> 
> this was almost named after a taylor swift song because i'm a Basic Bitch TM. i may or may not have a playlist for this that i'll drop when author reveals happen. the final title is at lee's suggestion, from tom odell's another love.

The thing is, Jeff knows what loneliness looks like. He’s got four siblings, and they’ve all got their shit, and the only way they’ve gotten through it is  _ together _ , and maybe their family was kind of a mess, but at this point Jeff’s pretty fucking good at recognizing when someone’s not coping well, and. Kent Parson is pretty much the poster child for “not coping well.”

What’s particularly wild to Jeff is that other people seem to have missed this. And sure, Kent has it made - he’s won the Stanley Cup twice, he’s got more money than Jeff can even fucking conceptualize, he’s got half a dozen Taylor Swift songs allegedly written about him - but he’s got so many weird layers and different masks and little idiosyncrasies that Jeff just… can’t imagine he’s actually happy all that often.

Maybe Jeff’s overstepping - maybe Kent doesn’t want some kid from Fresno who’s only been playing hockey above the NCAA level for a couple months inserting himself into every aspect of Kent’s life, but like. Jeff’s always found the best way to help the people he loves when they’re sad is just by being there, and Kent doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say no when Jeff asks him to help him and Dalts move into their new apartment, doesn’t say no when Jeff starts inviting him out for drinks here and there, doesn’t say no when Jeff asks to crash in Kent’s guest room when Dalts has decided that a four game win streak is a great excuse to have a fucking orgy in their living room.

Soon enough, it’s December, and they’re like… actually friends. Jeff’s having a fucking fantastic first season, has racked up a respectable number of assists and a handful of goals, and he’s sore as hell and doesn’t see his family enough, but he’s thriving, and somehow he keeps crashing with Kent. After all, when he and Kent end up hanging out later than they intend to, it’s just easier to sleep in Kent’s guest room than it is to make the drive back across Vegas. Jeff’s a morning person, so he always makes it up to Kent with breakfast, and it’s just easy, like he gets to have a little bit of family here in Vegas. Hell, Kent’s cat is even warming up to him a little.

They’re sitting on Kent’s ridiculously oversized couch talking shit about the Braves when Jeff realizes that, somehow, Kent’s his best friend here. Jeff may have approached the whole thing as an attempt to make Kent happy, to be there for his captain, but he’s getting just as much out of it as Kent is.

“Bro, what?” Kent cuts in, nudging Jeff’s thigh with his foot. Jeff realizes he stopped talking mid-sentence.

“I’m just, like.” Jeff’s not really sure he wants to get all weird and cheesy. It’s whatever. Kent’s easy to talk to, won’t immediately chirp him for saying something dumb, but maybe  _ you’re my best friend, Parser _ isn’t what he’s going for. “Are you, like, happy?”

Kent shoots him a look that Jeff can’t quite read. “Weird question, Goldie.”

Jeff shrugs. “I mean, are you?”

Kent scratches his neck and starts to say something, then stops. “Sometimes,” he finally says, then laughs softly, tilts his head against the back of the couch. “Fuck, man, that sounds so bad, I take it back. Like, obviously I’m happy, there’s like, less than zero reason to  _ not _ be happy. I can’t complain.”

“That’s not really how it works.”

Kent groans. “God, what are you, my therapist?”

“Fine, fine.” Jeff throws his hands in the air in mock surrender, laughing. “Psychoanalysis over. Fuckin Freeman, am I right?”

Their conversation gets back to safety. Jeff doesn’t ask again. 

  
  


Jeff is very, very drunk. 

But it’s cool, it’s fine, they don’t have a game tomorrow, and they fucking wrecked the Falcs. Kent played like he had something to prove, getting a Gordie Howe and then two more assists, and they don’t have to fly back until morning, and there are like eight bars in walking distance of the hotel. They’re celebrating, even if their captain is nowhere to be seen.

Jeff has his arm thrown around a blonde girl whose name he can’t remember. She’s pretty and nice and a hockey fan, but Providence doesn’t care enough about its hockey for that to be an issue. He’s trying to figure out the logistics of getting her back to his hotel room or going to her place when his phone buzzes.

_ jefffffffffffffffff,  _ Kent’s text reads.

“I gotta,” Jeff says to the girl, pointing at his phone, and she nods. He slides over her and out of their booth, making his way out of the bar before hitting the call button, because his fingers aren’t steady enough for him to type.

“Bro!” Kent says when he picks up. He actually sounds drunk, which is wrong, because he stayed in. Jeff’s pretty sure it’s illegal to get drunk without your team. There’s gotta be a fine or something. He tells Kent that, and Kent laughs.

“I don’t know, man, I didn’t want to,” Kent says. “Come back though, I’m bored.” He draws out the last word, makes it four syllables, bo-o-o-red, and Jeff feels bad, because what’s the point of being drunk  _ alone _ , so he starts walking back towards where he thinks the hotel is, jumping over frozen puddles.

“Parseroni, I want you to know that I’m risking my life right now to get to you.”

Kent snorts. “Stop being dramatic.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Jeff replies, steadying himself on a lamppost as he slips a little. There’s no snow, but Providence is fucking  _ cold _ in December, apparently, and he left his jacket in the bar.

When he finally comes to the intersection their hotel is on, Kent’s still slurring in his ear about nothing in particular. Jeff heads inside, grateful for the heat, and makes his way up to Kent’s room, banging out the Imperial March on the door until Kent opens it.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Kent says, hanging up his phone and throwing it onto the bed. His eyes are, like, really red, and for a second Jeff’s worried his captain is fucking  _ high _ but Kent’s sniffly too, and - 

“Were you  _ crying? _ ” Jeff asks, then flinches. “That sounded judgmental. Fuck.” He pulls Kent in for a hug, and Kent falls into it, despite his grumbles about how he  _ totally wasn’t, Goldie, god. _

They end up splitting the rest of Kent’s tequila and watching Lifetime movies until they pass out, and Jeff doesn’t pry.

 

 

The next morning, he leaves before Kent wakes up.

 

 

They get knocked out of the playoffs in the conference final, and it hurts like a motherfucker. Just like that, their season is over. After they’ve cleaned out their lockers and dealt with media, Kent only sticks around for a few days, and once he’s gone there’s not much keeping Jeff in Vegas. He flies out the day after Kent. His sisters are both waiting for him at the airport with an enormous sign covered in glitter glue spelling out his name, made all the more ridiculous by them both being grown women.

He snapchats a picture to Kent, then puts his phone away and lets himself get hugged/tackled, ready to spend a couple of months with his favorite people.

  
  


The first few weeks of his time off are great, spent sitting on his parents’ porch drinking hard cider and catching up with his siblings, ignoring his diet enough to appreciate his dad’s cooking, taking the dogs for runs in the morning. His group text with Dalts and Vader is full of vacation pictures and oversharing about their families. Kent keeps sending him pictures of Kit sprawled all over every surface of Kent’s mom’s house back in Albany, and Jeff is happy.

But he’s also fucking  _ bored. _

When Kent shoots him a text near the end of the month that just says  _ come visitttt meeeeeeeeeee,  _ Jeff doesn’t need much convincing.

 

Kent meets him at Albany International, wearing sunglasses and a snapback and ruining any impression of anonymity with his giant glittery JEFF GOLDAMMER sign. It’s even more ridiculous than Meg and Katie’s had been.

“You’re so fucking embarrassing, Christ,” Jeff groans, but his attempt at sounding annoyed is probably underminded by how hard he hugs Kent back. 

Kent turns up the radio full blast for the drive back to his house, and his hat keeps falling off because of the wind whipping through the windows, and Jeff can’t stop grinning and Kent’s a terrible singer but he knows all the words, and Jeff thinks  _ this is what he looks like happy. _

  
  


Jeff doesn’t really know what he was expecting from Kent’s house, but he definitely thought it would be bigger. It’s just a two-story with a big fenced in yard and a blue front door, and Kent’s tiny red car looks ridiculous in the driveway. Kent notices Jeff looking back and forth between the house and the car. “It was my grandma’s house,” Kent says with a shrug, then grabs Jeff’s bag and leads him inside. “I did the whole oversized estate thing and it was just… cold and impersonal and weird, and then Nana passed and she’d left it to me, and I fixed it up and my mom’s a couple blocks away, and it was just easier to live here.” Kent’s a little flushed, so Jeff bumps their shoulders together.

“I love it,” he tells Kent, who grins and drops his bag in a bedroom near the stairs.

“It’s home,” Kent says, heading into the kitchen and hopping up on the counter. The cabinets are all white, and against that backdrop it’s so clear how tanned and freckled Kent has gotten from the sun.

Jeff feels settled.

  
  


Kent’s birthday rolls in bright and clear, and Jeff goes for a run, then wakes Kent up with an omelette and a mimosa. He sits on the edge of Kent’s bed while Kent talks about his sister’s thesis and his cat’s latest hijinks, mouth full of eggs, and it’s gross and he’s shirtless and Jeff ends up laughing at him and his weird stories until his ribs hurt.

  
  


Kent’s sister has apparently invited half the NHL to Kent’s birthday party. It means that Jeff’s got plenty of familiar faces to latch on to as he gets progressively drunker, but he’s got pretty much  _ no _ idea what Murray is going on about, and Kent’s leaning against the fence sipping his drink, not talking to anyone, and it’s his  _ birthday _ . Jeff’s drunk enough that manners are optional, so he just walks away from the conversation, over to where Kent’s standing.

“Hi,” he says, drawing out the word and clinking his cup against Kent’s. 

Kent grins at him, slow and soft. “It’s my birthday. Fireworks and everything.”

Jeff  _ can  _ hear fireworks, now that Kent points them out. “Can’t see them, though.”

“Let’s fix that.” Kent downs his drink, then starts to climb over the fence. “You coming?” he asks, straddling the top. Jeff is probably way too drunk for it to be a good idea, but he’s also too drunk to care, so he finishes off his drink and follows.

  
  


“So,” Kent says, leaning his head against the side of a picnic table, “I figure we can watch from here and get back before anyone really cares I’m gone.”

Jeff sits down next to him, hitting the ground harder than anticipated, since his limbs aren’t cooperating right now. He grunts, and Kent laughs hard, even though it’s not that funny. Jeff pouts at him.

“Can’t handle your weird oversized limbs?”

Jeff punches him in the shoulder; Kent’s skin is warm. “Calm down, Napoleon.”

“I’m three inches taller than Napoleon,” Kent says, indignant.

“How do you even  _ know _ that, oh my god.”

“Shut up,” Kent groans. “It’s my birthday, you have to be nice.” He points up at a firework. “Is it just me or does that one look like a dick?”

“It’s just you,” Jeff replies, even though he totally does see it.

“You’re the worst.”

Jeff just bumps their shoulders together and looks at the sky, the sound of the party faint down the road.

  
  


Jeff flies home the next Thursday, and tries not to miss his best friend.

  
  


The rest of the summer goes by at a snail’s pace, and when it’s finally time to fly back to Vegas, Jeff is really fucking glad. Noser throws a party as soon as everyone on the roster is back in town, and Jeff doesn’t remember half of it, but it’s great to see the guys - as much as he loves home, he’s got a family here too now. He winds up at Kent’s and makes breakfast, Kit watching him from her favorite spot on the counter, and when Kent comes out, shirtless and mussed, cowlicks everywhere, Jeff notices that the freckles on his shoulders stand out even more now.

He pushes the thought aside and offers Kent coffee.

 

 

 

Preseason whizzes by. The chaos of new guys and rookies and dudes from Reno just trying to hold on to a spot on the roster soon settles into something that makes sense, and Jeff’s got  _ hopes _ for this year. It’s fucking incredible to be back out on the ice, especially now that he’s getting more time on the ice, even occasionally centering Kent’s line. He bulked up in August and it’s paying off and Kent keeps wearing hoodies that are like four sizes too big for him that Jeff’s  _ pretty _ sure are actually his. They’re spending most of their time off the ice together too, and it’s still so easy and good but like - it’s maybe getting a little weird.

It’s Dalts who points it out, one day in late October on their way out of practice. He grabs Jeff’s arm, pulls him towards his car instead of Kent’s, and shoots Jeff a  _ look _ . “Bro,” he says, “you’re neglecting me.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Huh?”

Dalts sighs, getting into the car. Jeff does the same, since he left his car at Kent’s and needs to leave somehow. “I don’t care about whatever big gay crush you have on Parser,” Dalts starts, backing out of his spot, “but we’re  _ roomies _ , bro. You gotta have roomie time! I never see you, okay?”

Jeff nods, mutely, because - he doesn’t have a  _ crush _ on Kent, that’s ridiculous. They’re just best friends, and he looks up to Kent. It’s not, like, a thing.

It’s not.

He asks Dalts about his on-again, off-again girlfriend, and pretends it doesn’t feel weird to go straight home from practice.

  
  


Except the thing is, now that Dalts said that, Jeff can’t stop  _ thinking _ about it, and like. Maybe it  _ is  _ weird, how much he likes being around Kent, how much he likes tucking his feet under Kent’s thighs while they watch TV, how much he likes seeing Kent drowning in his sweatshirts. 

He thinks about kissing Kent, just, like, to experiment with the thought, to prove it’s not a thing, and it’s -

It’s a thing.

  
  


The problem is that he  _ keeps _ thinking about it. Keeps thinking about kissing the last traces of summer freckles, about putting his hands on Kent’s hips and leaning in close, about kissing the taste of beer out of Kent’s mouth when they’re hanging out. Thinks about taking it further, then can’t stop thinking about that either.

He’s in full crisis mode now.

  
  


He calls Katie, because he’s pretty sure she has gay friends and will know what to do, or at least help him figure out what the hell is happening.

“New phone, who’s this,” she answers on the second ring.

“Shut up,” Jeff groans.

“You don’t call, you don’t write. I’m starting to forget I have a hockey superstar brother. Nice goal against Colorado, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Jeff says, then pauses. “Katie, you have, like, gay friends, right?”

“Get over it, don’t be a fucking homophobe. Your gay teammate probably doesn’t want to kiss you, anyway, you’re not that hot. Bam, advice given.”

Jeff scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m, uh. What if I want him to, though?” He pauses, then soldiers on before she can reply. “And, uh, I’m pretty sure he’s not gay. But… I might be? I mean, I like girls, but - ”

“Oh, honey,” Katie interrupts, softer. “I mean, you always  _ did _ have a thing for Harrison Ford.”

“That’s not the  _ point _ , Katie,” he says, though like. She might be onto something.

“Okay, fine, fine. You like a dude. Maybe several dudes. You  _ are _ allowed to like both, you know,” she points out. “And this’ll pass eventually if he’s straight, and you’ll be fine, and maybe you’ll find a nice dude to kiss someday. It’ll be fine, okay?”

She’s right. She’s totally right. It’ll pass.

  
  


It doesn’t pass.

  
  


He tries to give himself space from Kent, but Kent just sends him pictures of Kit looking sad until he relents, and he has to make up some bullshit excuse about family stuff when Kent asks why he’s been ignoring him. He tries to act like nothing’s changed, but his heart keeps doing this  _ thing _ when Kent bumps their shoulders together or reaches up to ruffle his hair or slaps his ass with a towel.

There’s no winning here, really. Jeff wants to kiss Kent, like, everywhere, and he doesn’t know how to let it go.

It doesn’t help that Kent starts getting antsy at the start of December, weird and jittery just under the surface. His game is fine, mostly, but he doesn’t seem natural in anything he does, just tense and concerned. Jeff can’t help but worry. He tries to show that he’s there for Kent, ignores his traitorous heart getting overexcited every time Kent accepts his presence, but he doesn’t know what’s  _ wrong _ and he doesn’t know how to ask.

  
  


It comes to a head two days before they’re scheduled to fly out to Providence. Jeff’s sitting on the counter in Kent’s kitchen while Kent grills some salmon, talking a hundred miles an hour about some cat toys he was researching, and he knocks a plate off a shelf and it shatters  _ everywhere _ , sending Kit running towards the bedroom, and Kent just… freezes. He’s staring down at the shards, his hands shaking a little bit, and Jeff feels  _ powerless _ . 

“Kent,” he says softly. Kent doesn’t reply. “Kenny,” he tries, and Kent flinches at that. Jeff reaches out, rests a hand on Kent’s shoulder. Kent puts one of his hands on top of it, and it’s shaking too much still for Jeff to think it means anything. Jeff gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, as gently as he can.

Kent looks up at him, then steps away from the mess. He reaches up to the liquor cabinet and takes out a bottle, but doesn’t grab glasses. “Couch,” he says, unscrewing the lid and taking a swig as he heads for the living room. Jeff follows.

They sit in silence on the couch for a few minutes, just passing the bottle between them. Jeff doesn’t want to pry, so he just waits until Kent is ready. 

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Kent finally says. Jeff just nods. “No, really, Jeff. It’s - it’s not just me who’d be fucked over, okay? You promise?”

Jeff promises.

“Remember last year, when I made you come drink with me in that hotel room after our game against the Falcs and I pretended I wasn’t crying?” Kent huffs out something resembling a laugh. Jeff nods. “I was crying,” Kent admits.

“I know.” Jeff looks over at Kent, who’s staring out the window, jaw tense.

“I’d, uh.” Kent pauses, takes a swig. “I’d just seen an ex, and, uh. It didn’t go well.”

Jeff remembers, then, how Taylor Swift has a house in Rhode Island, makes the connection. “Taylor?” he asks, just to confirm.

Kent shoots him a look. “What? No, god, we’re just friends. Her cats are great. No, uh, someone else. And - fuck, okay, this is where things get weird.”

“I’m listening.”

“So, like, you remember my draft year?”

“Kent, I’m only a year younger than you,” Jeff points out.

Kent shakes his head. “Right, okay, yeah. So, uh. You know Jack Zimmermann?”

Jeff isn’t really sure how this all connects, but he’s rolling with it. “Yeah, who doesn’t?”

“I -” Kent squeezes his eyes shut, then looks up at the ceiling and says, very softly, “I was in love with him.”

Jeff’s feeling… several things, honestly, but he pushes them down because Kent’s  _ letting him in _ and he doesn’t get to be selfish and make it about himself and his chances. Instead, he just nods, and says, “Okay.”

“And, like, for a while it really seemed mutual, Jeff. It really did. It’s not like we put a name on it, you know, but.” Kent shrugs. “There were dicks involved, and this weird fucking thought that we’d manage to have a future, and - I was young, and dumb, and I loved him, and I just - I was too caught up in my own shit and my stupid fucking dreams to realize I was making it more than it was.” Jeff’s pretty sure Kent is tearing up, but he doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Kent’s shoulder in silent support.

“And, like,” Kent sucks in a breath and steadies himself. “I should’ve seen it coming, right? I should have realized that he wasn’t supposed to take his meds that often, or drink while he was on them, but you have to understand how fucked up we all were.” Kent’s just passing the bottle from hand to hand, looking down at his clenched fingers. “Fuck, Jeff, I was so fucking scared that I didn’t realize he was too, and then - I mean, we all know what happened. Jack ODed, I came here, ancient fucking history.” He wipes his tears aggressively. Jeff stays silent.

“Except that I’m shit at letting things go, okay, so I kept trying to make it work anyway, kept pretending that  _ this time _ he’d finally pick up when I drunk dialed him, tried to visit him, tried to get him to sign here, and I fucked up so bad and said shit I shouldn’t have but nothing  _ worked _ , and it’s like - I thought I was doing better, you know? I thought that not being in love with him anymore would mean we’re friends again, that I could, like, be his buddy in the NHL, except that he’s  _ still _ not replying to my texts, and there’s this, like, gaping fucking hole in my  _ soul _ , and I don’t love him anymore, I don’t  _ need _ him anymore, but I still don’t know what’s going to happen on Thursday. I’m going to have to see him on the ice and I just - I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t fucking know.” 

Kent takes a deep breath, and he looks so  _ vulnerable _ and all Jeff can do is wrap his arms around Kent, holding him as he cries.   
  


 

Jeff gets two assists on Thursday, both on Kent’s goals. If he has to talk Kent down from freaking out in the locker room before the game, well.

Nobody needs to know that. All that matters is that they won.

  
  


After that, being around Kent is - different. It’s harder, now, because Jeff has to squash the part of him that’s saying  _ maybe he wants to kiss you back, _ but it’s easier too, because Kent shares more now, seems like something has been lifted off his shoulders a little bit. Kent’s more open with the rest of the team now, too, laughing and joking and going out with the guys more, and Jeff’s happy for him. Happy for the team.

“Jack’s been texting me back,” Kent tells him, a couple weeks after the Falcs game. They’re sitting on Jeff’s couch, both online shopping for Christmas gifts.

“Good,” Jeff replies, not sure what else he  _ can _ say.

“He seems happy.”

_ So do you _ , Jeff doesn’t say.

  
  


When the Falconers come to Vegas in March, Jack and Kent go out to eat together the night before the game. Jeff reminds himself that they’re friendly again, ignoring the pang of jealousy. Kent’s not in love with Jack, and it’s not like he’s in love with Jeff either. It’s a non-issue. It’s nothing.

  
  


The rest of March brings awful luck for the Aces, and by the time they limp into playoffs, barely holding on to their wildcard spot, it feels like half the team is out. Jeff’s got a broken femur, and he  _ knows _ Kent’s been playing with a fucked up wrist, but. That’s hockey.

“We’ll get them next year,” Kent tells Jeff when they get eliminated. Jeff believes him.

  
  


This time, Jeff schedules his visit to Kent before they even leave Vegas. When he flies out to Albany again after a few weeks at home, Katie just gives him a  _ look _ .

Jeff gives her the finger and heads through security.

  
  


Kent picks him up again, and his house is the same and his freckles are the same and Jeff thinks,  _ I am in love with you _ , and he doesn’t know what to do with that, so he pushes it to the back of his mind and helps Kent make burgers in the back yard.

  
  


“I’m bisexual,” he blurts out to Kent in the middle of CVS, because he has to say  _ something _ , and it’s not fair that he’s been keeping this from Kent.

Kent pauses, box of red, white, and blue Christmas lights in his hand. “Cool,” he finally says, then throws the lights in their basket. “Do we need more Gatorade or no?”

  
  


Jeff’s leaning against the counter three days later, scratching Kit’s head and rambling about the proper order to watch the Star Wars films in when Kent kisses him.

It’s hesitant; Kent gets on his toes and kisses the side of Jeff’s mouth, but it’s - it’s a kiss, even if Kent steps away after.

“What was that?” Jeff asks slowly, because - if it was just bros, he doesn’t want to make it weird, but - if it wasn’t, well.

Kent closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that, fuck. I should know better. I’m sorry, I’m - “

Jeff cuts him off by leaning down, resting his hands on Kent’s hips, and kissing him back.

Kent makes a little noise, surprise and indignation and enthusiasm all at once, and Jeff pulls back. “This okay?” he asks.

Kent puts his arms around Jeff’s neck, pulls him back down. “Very, very okay,” Kent says, then kisses Jeff again, more confidently this time. Jeff likes kissing, knows he’s a pretty good kisser, but he’s got  _ nothing _ on Kent, who’s as talented and sure with his mouth as he is with the puck, and Jeff - Jeff’s not going to think about hockey right now. Not with Kent hopping up on the counter and wrapping his legs around Jeff’s waist, laughing against Jeff’s mouth when Kit meows at them.

Kent pushes Jeff back and slides off the counter to feed her. “Later,” he promises.

  
  


“I can’t do this casually,” Kent says, softly, when they’re toasting marshmallows over his firepit that night. “I understand if that means you don’t want to take this any further, and we can go back to just friends, but I don’t - “

Jeff cuts him off with a kiss.

  
  


\---

  
  


Jeff wakes up before Kent, the December sun cold through Kent’s oversized windows. He’s stretching his arms when Kit leaps up on the bed and starts kneading Kent’s arm. Kent flips her over and sandwiches her between them, forcing her to stay still. Kent opens his eyes and grins at Jeff. Jeff looks down at him fondly.

“What?” Kent yawns halfway through the word.

“I’m just… you seem happy.”

“Yeah,” Kent answers. “I really am.” 


End file.
